


It's Always Eighteen Ninety-Five

by lovetincture



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fairy Tale Elements, M/M, Multiple Crossovers, Multiverse, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 19:45:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18835519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: They’ve done this a lot. Many times, through many lives. Usually they’re themselves—some version of themselves. Often it’s London.In the end, it's always Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.





	It's Always Eighteen Ninety-Five

**Author's Note:**

> This is a strange little idea that grabbed me and wouldn't let go. Let me know if you catch all the references 😉
> 
> Title taken from [Vincent Starrett's gorgeous poem 221B](https://www.ihearofsherlock.com/2013/10/celebrate-national-poetry-day.html#.XNt1CY5KiM8).

They’ve done this a lot.

Many times, through many lives. Usually they’re themselves—some version of themselves. Often it’s London.

First, it was 1895. The streets of London were fetid and mean, lit by gas lamps that blackened the walls with soot. Holmes was ornery. Often on drugs, always brilliant. They kissed and hid it from a world that wasn’t yet ready for them.

They died young, all things considered. People didn’t live long in those days, and exceptional though they were, in this they were no exception. Holmes went first, although Watson wouldn’t have placed his money on it (and he was a betting man).

He followed shortly after, sighing in his sleep, reaching out to the one he loved, who seemed nearly present through that veil that separated this life from the next.

* * *

Then it was 2010. Still London. Electricity now, and keep the war for old time’s sake. Still Kandahar but a new war—although wars are all the same: always blood, always dying, loosened bowels and the stink of fear.

The PTSD was a small price to pay for someone to hold him through the screaming. The bad leg was worth a run through London streets.

There were mobiles that time. Sherlock liked the mobiles, and they kept to the 21st century after that. 21st century, first name basis. It was all fine.

Sherlock died again. Well, “died” before he really died. Rooftop this time, not a waterfall. John  punched him instead of fainting—punched him a lot—and felt quite smug about the whole thing.

He married someone else, and it ended in blood. The worst times of that life happened near water, he reflected, with the ghostly light of gentle waves dancing in his eyes.

He loved her, or he thought he did, but he never looked for her again. Not in the next life nor any other.

He tried not to think on what that meant.

* * *

There was New York. Change of scenery. Sherlock still liked the mobiles, but they were cell phones now. They shared an apartment and not a flat.

John was still a doctor, but John was Joan. It had been a long few centuries, and she was ready to try something new.

She skipped the war this time.

Kissing was different in this body—rough stubble on soft skin, breasts pressed to flat planes of lean muscle. Soft and wet, yielding and strong. It was a revelation. But she missed the feel of his heartbeat on hers and resolved to do without the breasts next time.

Still, she thought with a smile pressed against his lips, it was interesting to try it just the once.

* * *

They stayed on this side of the pond after that. New York suited just fine. The weather was terrible, but it was terrible in a way that made them feel alive. The summers were scorching and the winters frigid. There was something fine about the feeling of being pressed skin to sticking skin, humidity turning each touch damp as a kiss.

Sherlock insisted he should be the doctor this time. A surgeon, he insisted smugly. A brilliant one, naturally. The most briliant, ferreting out ailments of tissue and blood, solving mysteries of the body and healing them like God.

He refused to treat cases of the sniffles at family clinics, and John ignored the jab against those years in London—Sherlock had always wanted him to give it up, but he had liked having one thing that was his; after all, he’d consigned his eternity to Sherlock already.

Fine, John said. They could both be doctors.

And magic, Sherlock said.

There’s no such thing as a magic surgeon, John said. This is worse than the time you wanted to be pirates.

But John was always rubbish at turning him down, every time and in every life, so a magic surgeon it was. Sherlock gave his hands for it, to make it fair.

Even though it was strange.

Mycroft wasn’t invited, hadn’t been invited for several incarnations now, so John was the government that time. To keep Sherlock safe.

* * *

They saved the world, and they did it a lot. They stopped killers. They died and they died—if they were lucky, they did it at the same time. They saved each other again and again and again.

Sherlock grew tired of mobiles even when they were called cell phones. He grew tired of everything and wanted nothing more than to sleep. Privately, John thought he was making up for lost time.

He became a dragon and hoarded gold. He slept in a pile of it for centuries until John found him and woke him up.

John was even shorter this time—a joke between the two of them, to make Sherlock smile. He didn’t know if it did. It was hard to tell a smile on something so big and toothy. He hoped Sherlock got the joke. He’d spent his life on it, after all.

John didn’t like the time they were dragons. He’d just as soon leave the fairytales to someone else.

They’d go back to London, he thought as he died. He’d always liked London.

**Author's Note:**

> You can check out my [original writing here](https://hopezane.com) if you're interested.
> 
> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/lovetincture) | [Tumblr](http://lovetincture.tumblr.com) | [Dreamwidth](http://lovetincture.dreamwidth.org)


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